Inside Outside
by Stunt Muppet
Summary: Cyclonus keeps records on his surface. Galvatron/Cyclonus.


Each one is stored in his memory; each one is annotated.

Most of the marks that his Lord has given him are gone, healed over. There are some places on his body that he returns to over and over, opened once, twice, three times; twice in anger, once in lust. And encoded in each nanometer of his plating is every sensation that accompanied them, accessible with only a thought.

Here along his antennae, all up and down, are the crescent marks of Galvatron's teeth – the one near the base, inside the left antenna, that was the first, deep and ragged, pressing sensors and wires down to the substructure and flooding him with sensation too sharp to be distinguished between pleasure or pain. A test of his loyalty, to see what he would accept from his master. And it had been megacycles before Galvatron was satisfied of his faith, even as pleas and thanks for his Emperor's touches had spilled from his lips, even as he gasped that he had never hoped to be so honored. These mementos he treasures the most.

Along the tip of the right antenna there was once a lighter mark, given in almost in play after their first real victory. He remembers the sound, the slide instead of the crack and grind of the first time.

And here is the long line down his torso, mostly faded now; that one was given in punishment. After many many cycles of ennui and ill temper one loss too many had spurred Galvatron to tear a long strip of piping from off the wall of the base and swing at whomever was nearest, and Cyclonus had been nearest.

The metallic piping cut and penetrated the way a hand or cannon blast could not, leaving the long jagged line that trailed from his chest to the top of his hip. As he had taken his punishment Galvatron had hit harder and faster, and with every impact and every spatter of oil and fluid he had seemed to come alive again, awakened by the reminder of what violence he could do. And when it was over he had stroked at the edges of the cut – had his touch fallen on unbroken plating it would have been gentle – and teased at the thick, leaking cables he had exposed, and had murmured his pleasure with the servant who revived him.

Cyclonus is tempted, at times, to recreate his master's marks and the heat they raise inside him, even those that have reached the deepest. And most times he resists, for he is his Lord's to mark and his Lord's alone. But there is one that he has remade every solar cycle, concealed within his body so he can hide his disobedience even from himself.

Some time after their escape from Torkulon Galvatron had demanded him again – a relief, after the way the prison planet had left him, and a sign perhaps that his anger had abated. Cyclonus had gone so long with nothing, not even a raised hand in anger; all it took was those same hands pinning him hard against the wall and every part of him tensed with want, panels sliding open unbidden.

But Galvatron ignored his open sockets and bared cord, pressing instead at the interlocking plating guarding his spark, fingers digging into the latches and sending ecstatic, unbearable shocks through his body, too heavy, too dizzyingly fast – a few moments ago he was only aroused and now he couldn't focus long enough to _speak_, and he had to open his spark chamber, it was what his Lord required, but the desperate ache that came from resisting, from being forced –

When he opened on his own Galvatron still pressed at him, fingers curling against the interior wall, leaving lines inside and dents around the edges and ripples in the field surrounding his fast-pulsing spark; Cyclonus squirmed, mouth fallen open, and he was already moaning and he couldn't be, any moment there might be orders.

None came; instead, the hot glow of a second spark against his own plating, and he had only enough time to wonder – Galvatron had never showed his own spark, only rarely asked the same of him -

And then no explanation, just the sear of Galvatron's field against his as he pressed deep and hard, and still those hands were working at his inside, clawing out another shiver and another quaking, wordless sound, and he could feel his Lord's heat and pulse filling him, pushing into every wire and every cable.

And in the pressure that was shaking his body he felt the dark again, the enveloping dark that created him and bound him to his Lord – but there was something else, and it grew closer with every pulse – something tangled and writhing against that dark, something that pressed at the edges and grew out of the cracks. And that tangle slithered beneath his surface and the pleasure was shot through with something anxious and crawling, something that would twist and tear until it shook him apart –

He does not reach inside his own chamber now, to see if the lines the Galvatron left remain. But the dents, and one small scar on the edge of his protective plating as reminder, he will not permit to heal.


End file.
